


Wood

by Alemonmoonsky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub Play, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New York City, Secret Identity Fail, Sub Drop, web design, woodworking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:12:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alemonmoonsky/pseuds/Alemonmoonsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and his best bro Scott live in NYC and work at Whittemore's WebWorks, a web design company. Stiles meets an amazing guy at a Halloween party, but never gets his info; he also has to deal with a recurring issue in the form of a woodworking recluse who refuses to give him vital information to complete his website. THEY COULDN'T POSSIBLY BE THE SAME GUY NOW COULD THEY</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rednecks and Circus Bears

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfic in the TW fandom, second ever written, and first ever posted on AO3. It is dedicated to Laura, who motivated me to write this in the first place. She is the first TW person/online friend I ever made/met in real life. YAY LAURA!
> 
> You can find me as alemonmoonsky on Tumblr, but I mostly just reblog a lot of TW stuff with occasional fitness/random things.

“Hey, stop dreaming about Lydia and write my goddamn content!” Stiles’ entire body jerks as Jackson whacks him in the back of the head with a rolled up magazine. For once he has no witty response. If he lets slip that he was actually fantasizing about a much larger, hairier person than the gorgeous strawberry-blond secretary who’s turned him down at every single office party they’ve ever had, he’d have a ton more explaining to do. Stiles is really just not in the mood to get into the entire “yes Stiles is bisexual” conversation, because once that happens he’d be afraid to encounter Jackson next to a urinal ever again. Jackson is his boss, and he’s hot; accidentally pissing him of by glancing at his dick could lead to unimaginable forms of torture. Not a road Stiles feels like walking down any time soon.

Scott looks up at Stiles from across their connected cubicles; his standard goofy grin is reassuring. Stiles smiles and wipes the drool from his mouth, saying “Sorry man, I’m working on it.” Jackson sneers, briefly showing his blindingly white smile purchased with a sum five times the equivalent of Stiles’ rent, and walks back toward his corner office. Stiles pretends he does not watch Jackson’s ass tightly stretching the grey material of his trousers as he walks; he jams his earbuds back in (they were dislodged during his encounter with the magazine) and turns back to his work. 

Scott and Stiles have been working on a site for Hale Designs. The small business has rapidly grown from a little-known, tiny woodworking shop in Brooklyn into a popular brand after one of their tables was given a positive review by, of all people, Simon Cowell. Some ass had used a table meant to be installed in a living room as part of their gimmick on X Factor, leading Simon to comment: “if I could move the table ahead in the competition without you I would; now get off my stage, you inadequate wank.” The incident created a flurry of excitement; tumblr and twitter users across the internet wondered feverishly who had fashioned an object that could garner the approval of such a judgmental celebrity. It was discovered the table was made by Hale Designs, but an online ordering infrastructure and catalogue were non-existent. The artist himself was apparently a hermit who had no desire to speak to strangers by phone or in-person. Fucking Brooklyn hipsters. Thus, Stiles and Scott’s company had been hired to give Hale Designs a web presence, so that the business could continue to grow without forcing the mysterious creator of sexy wood-objects to participate in real-life human interaction.

Stiles sighs, scrubbing his long fingers over his head-stubble. He’s already finished the copy for the sections of the site about the wood-working process, the descriptions of items currently up for sale, and the directions for pick-up from the shop. He is having a hard time with the “About” section, for obvious reasons. He still has no clue about the person behind the product. 

“Scott, what do we have on this Hale guy? Did he send a picture of himself with the stock photos?”

Scott glances up from his wire-frame. “No man, nothing. I hate to say this, but he hasn’t been emailing me back, you probably have to go over there.”

Stiles is not in the mood to deal with some asshole in Bushwick who is now hot shit, but is still so deeply mired in ironic pretentiousness that he has to keep his entire identity a secret. Stiles has been putting Jackson off about this project for a week or so; he figures he could stand to for a while longer, as long as he keeps turning out his other work. So he switches back to the site for a dog-grooming and kennel business (all the tiny shit-poos and cocker-doodles and their ridiculous yapping need to be stored somewhere while their owners jet off to Italy) and tries to get through the rest of the day without letting his mind wander to much larger, equally furry topics.

His mind has other plans. His brain keeps flicking up images of the Halloween party. He and Scott had checked nonsensenyc, a listing of weird parties and events around the city, to find something to go to on the creepiest night of the year. As usual, they wound up at a warehouse party in Brooklyn. Scott was dressed up as a dog. The costume was easy enough to make; they found a brown fuzzy blanket at the thrift shop and cut out ears and a ratty looking tail, and painted his nose black. It was Allison’s idea; she worked at the shop. Stiles was wondering when the tentative smiles and blushes she and Scott traded constantly would turn into anything that would require him to leave their open floor-plan apartment to avoid seeing. If Stiles was usually daydreaming about Lydia, Scott was doing the same about Allison, and if both of them were this pathetic for much longer it was going to take a serious toll on their work.

For the party, Stiles had decided to be a version of the Red Hood. He wore the tightest hipsters jeans he had and a black tee with a red bat symbol on it, and layered his classic red hoodie and a leather jacket on top. He’d painted a black mask around his eyes, whispering “sexilicious” to himself in his bedroom mirror before noticing the picture of his dad on the bookcase, which was definitely judging him. As the final touch to his costume and a conversation starter, Stiles had attempted to bring a crow-bar with him to the party, but it was removed by a large man with dreads in plaid before he could even get in the door.

Allison had surprised Scott and Stiles by showing up as Dorothy. The obvious match to Scott’s costume (“I’m calling you Toto forever now”) both pleased and terrified Scott, but Stiles knew it was a step in the maybe-they-would-actually-get-over-themselves-soon-and-at-least-make-out direction. So he pushed Scott towards Allison, yelled “go have fun!” in his ear, and smiled as Allison grabbed Scott’s hand and dragged him toward a group of people bobbing for apples in a kiddie pool.

Stiles had wandered through the warehouse, casually grooving to “Sorry” (were hipsters that far up their own asses that not even the Biebs was off-limits?), rubbing shoulders with zombie princesses, Donald Trumps, and the occasional left shark. He encountered groups of people playing games of bocce, having their fortunes told by a white lady who was not aware of the culturally appropriative nature of her get-up, and buying drinks from a male bartender dressed as a sexy nun. Stiles threaded through the crowd, the dim lighting and smoky air punctuated by the occasional flash or glow, and saw a group gathering near the DJ. He walked through the dancing mob and stopped at the edge of a ring of people. The space in the middle was occupied by a tiny redneck in a trucker hat, puffy vest and fake mustache, and a girl with shiny, dark hair dressed as a sexy circus bear. They were circling around each other, held together by a blue collar and leash; the bear was pulling at the collar, gyrating to the music, while the redneck wound and unwound the leash in a sinuous dance. 

Stiles glanced around at the slack-jawed onlookers; he was sure this sort of display was shocking even to a group of perpetually jaded Brooklynites. His eyes snagged on the plaid- and leather-wearing guy standing next to him, who was watching the display with something like disgruntled amusement on his face. 

“Hey, nice costume, Logan.” Stiles practically yelled in the guy’s ear. The stubble-covered face and the annoyed expression on it were swiftly directed at Stiles. The X-man had gorgeous green eyes, tinged with electric blue, that were doing their best to counteract the way his face had taken on the look of a, well…wolf. “Woah, very cool contacts!” Stiles attempted in an effort to mollify the dude, which had the effect of further annoying him to the point where he stalked out of the circle. One of his aluminum claws got caught on an unbuttoned overall strap of a sexy minion (why!?) and fell to the floor, but he didn’t stop moving. Stiles, despite feeling a bit miffed at the rejection, hastily picked up the shiny object and raced after him. He found the man standing next to the bathroom, away from the noise of the DJ and the crazy redneck-circus bear spectacle.

“Hey, you dropped this.” Stiles shoved the aluminum claw into the guy’s chest, which was decidedly muscular, and no, Stiles was not going to get a boner right now because his pants were hipster-tight. The man glanced down at the claw, gave Stiles a penetrating look with his strangely-colored eyes, then grabbed the claw and re-attached it to the plastic holder in his hand while mumbling something that sounded like “Thanks.”

“What?” Stiles practically yelled at his face. “Also, my name is Stiles.” He reached out a hand, which the furry-faced guy stared at, confused; after a moment he seemed to remember his social graces and grabbed Stiles’ outstretched hand with his own. The aluminum claws tickled Stile’s forearm, and he laughed. The tiniest hint of a smile played briefly across the man’s face as he shook his head, said “sorry, I’m Derek” and removed his hand, and claws, from Stiles’ skin. Stiles broke into a grin, until he realized he looked like an idiot, and said, “Pretty weird, those girls over there, huh? I’ve only seen stuff like that, well, not outside of a computer screen, shall we say.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

The man’s small wisp of a smile instantly dissolved. “That’s my sister Laura. And her girlfriend.” 

Stiles blanched, backing away with his hands raised. “Oh man, I didn’t mean to…I’m going, I’m sure they’re really nice, I’m sorry…”

Derek sighed and grabbed him by the shoulder with a surprisingly vice-like grip, stopping him. Stiles stared at him, until Derek pointed directly behind Stiles, where an excessively hairy Teen Werewolf (circa Michael J. Fox-era) and a lizard-girl were heavily making out. “Oh, thanks man.” Stiles glanced back up at Derek apologetically. 

“It’s alright. And my sister isn’t the most…discrete person.” Derek crossed his arms, aluminum-adorned hands shimmering in the shifting light. 

“I see. Sucks to be left by yourself, though, ” Stiles offered. Derek shrugged, and Stiles continued: “If it makes you feel any better, my best friend is off somewhere with the girl he’s been into for months, so I know the feeling. Um…you wanna get a drink?”

Derek gave him an appraising look, and for a second Stiles thought he might just walk away, but then he nodded once, curtly, and walked past the wolf/lizard thing that had melted into one writhing mass of hair and scaled limbs (gross) and towards the man-nun at the bar. 

Over the next few hours, as the party seethed around them in the cold darkness of the warehouse, Stiles and Derek walked around with their drinks and made fun of the various oddly-costumed young people. Derek refused to bob for apples, but when Stiles played and grabbed one, Derek whipped out a knife and sliced it in half for them to share, and then bought Stiles’s next drink. Later on the temperature in the place had dropped, and Stiles had begun to shiver. Derek suggested getting closer to the DJ, where the all the body-generated heat was making it slightly more bearable. They had had a few drinks by then, and Derek’s previously surly demeanor was, if not altogether gone, at least more companionable. As they moved closer to the dancing mob of people Stiles decided to act on impulse; it was Halloween, he was young, and he’d never before worn pants this constrictive. He grabbed Derek’s hand, careful of the claws, and pulled him farther into the throng. 

Once they were firmly ensconced in the crowd, Derek stood looking uncomfortable, arms crossed. But as he watched Stiles dance, he seemed to relax. His feet began to shuffle, and then his arms began to move, and holy shit, Derek could dance. They moved closer and closer, and Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck. He could feel Derek startle a little, then relax, and put his hands around Stiles’ waist. Stiles could feel Derek’s breath on his neck, warm huffs twisting smoke-like into the cold air. As their bodies pressed together, Stiles realized his pants were allowing how he felt about the situation to be easily…felt. He glanced up at Derek, said a quick “fuck it” in his head, and rolled his hips. The look on Derek’s face turned feral; Stiles could barely register the equally hard bulge in Derek’s pants before his mouth was being devoured and a large hand was palming his ass. 

Derek pressed his slick lips to Stiles’ and firmly parted them, placing his other hand on the back of Stiles’ head. Stiles eagerly responded, pressing his tongue firmly against Derek’s. He buried his long fingers in Derek’s hair, pulling back slightly so he could catch Derek’s bottom lip and gently suck on it, ending the pressure with a slight nip. Derek’s hips stuttered against his, and he shoved his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck as they continued to grind against each other to the music. Stiles reveled in the feel of their dicks pressing together rhythmically through the thin denim of their pants. Derek pulled back slightly, detaching his hand from Stiles’ ass long enough to unzip his hoodie and push it aside, and licked a long, wet stripe from Stiles’ clavicle to the crook of his neck, where he settled his mouth and began sucking a bruise into Stiles’ skin. Stiles groaned appreciatively, and dragged a fingertip lightly over the shell of Derek’s ear. This encouraged Derek further, and as the bruise deepened Stiles couldn’t take any more. He pulled away from Derek, who gave him the most debauched and frustrated look ever (complete with hair standing up in every direction), and grabbed his hand to drag him toward the bathrooms. 

Which, as Stiles should have known, were ridiculously crowded. The line was so long it stretched to the bar, providing it with an infinite supply of people who would need to pee by the time they got to the front. Stiles was pissed. Things were going so well! He hadn’t gotten this much action since college, which was really saying something, considering he’d already been living in the city for almost a year. All he wanted was to share an orgasm with something other than his hand; was that really too much to ask? He felt a tug on his arm and realized Derek was pulling him towards the door. Unsure but willing, Stiles followed him out of the warehouse. 

The air was quite chilly, and hit Stiles so suddenly he gasped. “Fuck it’s cold!” He was immediately swung around a corner and manhandled indelicately into the brick wall of the warehouse. Derek quickly shucked his aluminum claws, covered Stiles with as much of his body as he could, and continued the assault on his mouth. The contrast between the cold brick on his back and the hot muscle pinning him to the wall was shockingly good. As soon as Derek’s wet, hot mouth was on his again Stiles relaxed, creeping his hands under Derek’s shirt for warmth. Derek hissed at the contact between Stiles’ cold fingers and the skin of his belly, then continued kissing him, moving his hands to the wall on either side of Stiles’ head. Stiles moved his own hands up to Derek’s chest, and scratched his nails slowly down till he reached the top of Derek’s jeans. Stiles must have done something right, because Derek immediately ceased working on adding to the stubble burn on Stiles’ face and knelt down to work open his pants button. 

As soon as the warmth of Derek’s body left his chest, Stiles felt the shock of the cold air knock the wind out of him. As much as he wanted to pay attention to Derek mouthing at his cock through his boxers, he was starting to shiver violently. Derek stopped, looked up at Stiles, and took off the insulated leather jacket he was wearing to gently sting it across Stiles’ front. It hung slightly below Stiles’ waist. The “Thank you” Stiles tried to force out as his tooth-chattering subsided was replaced by a shaky intake of breathe as Derek quickly rucked up the jacket, pulled down his boxers, and took the entirety of what had been Stiles’ flagging erection into his mouth.

“Oh fuck- “ was all Stiles got out before the sounds coming out of his mouth stopped being words at all. Derek expertly bobbed his head on Stiles’ cock while keeping the exposed skin of his legs covered with his huge hands. Stiles stared down into Derek’s eyes; the ice blue around the green was expanding, and then Derek, without looking away, sucked Stiles’ cock all the way into his mouth, not stopping until his lips were kissing Stiles’ stomach. Stiles could feel the head of his cock bumping against the back of Derek’s throat, and he grabbed Derek’s hair as he came, yelling nonsense syllables as his hips stuttered wildly. 

To his credit, Derek held on to Stiles and swallowed until his hips stopped jerking. He slowly pulled off, carefully placed Stiles’ dick back in his boxers, and zipped and buttoned his ridiculously tight hipster pants. Derek leaned in and kissed him, wet and lazy, and Stiles’ cock made an aborted twitch at the taste of himself on Derek’s tongue. He could feel how hard Derek was as he pressed against Stiles, and Stiles was figuring out what to do about that through his orgasmic haze when he heard a female voice call out “Stiles? Hey!” This was followed up by Scott’s familiar “Duuuuuude!”

Derek quickly moved about a foot away and shoved his hands in his pockets as Stiles adjusted his jacket and junk. He turned toward Allison and Scott.

“Oh heeeeey guys, how was your night? Sorry I didn’t text, I uh, didn’t want to bug you.” 

“It’s totally cool man,” Scott said, giant lopsided grin sliding onto his face as Allison blushed. Something had finally clicked. “And hey, can I get a fist bump?” Scott glanced at Derek and wiggled his eyebrows. Stiles gave in, saying, “This is Derek, Derek, Scott and Allison.” Derek nodded gruffly at the two, when another female voice piped up in the distance.

“Hey, Derek?”

It was Laura and her girlfriend, who had not missed the lack of Derek’s presence for a good 4 hours. Derek looked at Stiles with a slight hint of a smile, roughly grabbed him by the shoulder, and squeezed tightly. Then he was bounding off, Stiles looking longingly after him, and by the time he realized he still had Derek’s jacket he was halfway back to Manhattan on the L, with Allison and Scott holding hands next to him and some homeless guy singing “Hey There Delilah” at the other end of the car. 

So it probably isn’t Stiles’ fault that he gets very little done the next week at work. If Lydia gives him weird looks for ignoring her, they barely register. Stiles’ daydreams are filled with large hands, spiky dark hair, and green eyes eerily tinged with bright, electric blue. And if he secretly, quietly gets off in the bathroom at work thinking about those eyes staring at him from a face with swollen red lips wrapped around his cock, can he really be blamed?


	2. Glowing Drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exposition exposition expositionnnnn

Stiles is starting to feel bad that he still has the mysterious, blue-eyed, delightfully hairy, nerdy (X-Men is still nerdy, right?), tall, large-handed, slick-lipped, well-muscled – oh god he has to stop – Derek’s – coat. It’s been three weeks since the warehouse party. The weather is turning ever cooler, and the leaves are finally starting to turn color and fall as it hits late November; thank you, global warming. Stiles keeps telling himself he should put up a craigslist ad (would “We met on Halloween at a warehouse party, you were dressed as Wolverine, I have your jacket and owe you a blowjob, please collect ASAP” be too obvious?), but he can’t bear to think about parting with the jacket, or what kind of creepy-ass response he would get from the internet. He has started to wear the jacket to work, and won’t stop despite all the funny looks Scott gives him. Stiles thinks Scott is full of shit; Scott stole one of the red bows from Allison’s Dorothy costume and keeps it locked in his desk drawer, taking it out every few hours and staring at it longingly and sighing loudly with his entire body. After the Halloween party, he’d gone to ask Allison out on a date at the thrift store, but her overbearing father had seen him talking to her and made it clear that Allison was not to be associating with guys like Scott. What a stuck up French dick-bag. Stiles doesn’t have the heart to tell Scott just how pathetic he’s become, especially since it would make him look like a total hypocrite. So he sits across from Scott, listening to the forlorn sound of air slowly and painstakingly escaping his lungs, and occasionally sniffs Derek’s jacket when he doesn’t think anyone is looking. 

In the weeks since the party, Stiles has managed to finish the dog-grooming website content, as well as the content for the site of a private, very high-end dominatrix named Erica Reyes (which was still somehow not enough to distract him from the constant playback of the Halloween party running through his brain). He can’t ignore it anymore; he has to get the information for the “About” section of the Hale Designs website or Jackson will start threatening him with even more intense punishment, like an actual firing. Stiles checks with Scott, and sure enough, the asshole/hermit behind the business still hasn’t gotten back to them via technological means. Stiles resigns himself to dragging his ass all the way to Bushwick; his boss may be an asshole, but the pay is good and he gets to work with his best friend. No use losing his job over one stupid website.

After shooting off an email to Jackson about leaving early for actual, work-related reasons, Stiles grabs his (Derek’s) jacket and his messenger bag, gives Scott a pat on the head (“Cheer up, buddy, the sad puppy eyes are starting to wear on my soul”) and clears out of the office before Jackson can think up a reason to keep him there longer. 

Stiles hops on the 6 to get downtown, and transfers to the L at Union Square. One of his favorite subway bands, House of Waters, is playing as he walks between lines. Their music is airy and light, with a world-music flair from the percussionist’s use of giant bean shakers. It reminds him of home, Beacon Hills, his father, and the renaissance faire his mother used to take him to during the summer. The floppy-haired, lanky beanpole of a guy playing the dulcimer smiles at Stiles as he drops a buck into their bucket, and Stiles smiles back; he would almost consider hitting on him one day if he didn’t bear so much of a resemblance to Scott. That is a place Stiles is not willing to go, even though he’s always wanted to fuck a musician…Stiles shakes his head to clear the thought of the guy’s blindingly white smile from his mind and keeps walking.

The L isn’t crowded, just a couple of people who look like they probably went to Oberlin or some other liberal arts school, and a mom with her kid in a stroller; Stiles grabs a seat near the door, and puts his headphones in. 

The train rumbles out of the station. As Stiles’ body sways with the motion of the train, his mind for the thousandth time wanders back to the night of the Halloween party. He tries to remember any detail about Derek that he might use to identify him. He’s gone over this in his head at least a hundred times, and done countless related Google searches, but nothing about the guy besides his muscular physique is giving anything away. Body guard, personal trainer, fireman, and professional strongman/circus artist turned up nothing. Not for the first time, Stiles wonders why his observational skills couldn’t be more like those of every Sherlock Holmes character in current popular media. He certainly has the research-related obsessiveness, ADD and intense, barely contained bodily spazziness that seem to accompany the characterizations portrayed by Robert Downey Junior and Johny Lee Miller. Then again, both characters don’t have the best romantic track record, so it’s probably for the best.

The announcement for the Dekalb stop shakes Stiles out of his reverie. He leaves the train, head bopping along to Tegan and Sara’s “Closer,” and tries not to think about how applicable the song is to what he’s been obsessing about for the past three weeks. He walks the ten minutes to the Hale workshop. When he finds the door, predictably made out of some kind of gorgeous, shiny hardwood, he rings the buzzer. And waits.

Nothing. 

Stiles rings the damn thing for a solid 10 minutes (bouncing to “Closer” on repeat the entire time), and gets more and more annoyed. He’s just trying to do his job right! Why the hell won’t this crazy asshole answer his door so Stiles can finish his stupid website? 

Stiles decides he has had enough. He’s not going to wait around for some fuckhead all day. He grabs a piece of paper and a pen out of his bag and writes the following note: 

“Mr. Hale, I am an associate at Whittemore Webworks. We have not been able to contact you via email or phone, and are attempting to gain vital information so that we may finish your website. Our contract was for the completion of the entire site; we have already put copious effort into all other sections and would like to finish this final portion and receive payment. Please feel free to email me at s2tilinski@whitwebworks.com or call our office as soon as you are able. 

Patiently,

S. Stilinski”

Fuming, and shaking with the difficult task of having to write a polite letter when he is pissed the fuck off, Stiles folds up the note and jams it in the crack between the door and the wall. He puts away his pen somewhat violently, and manages to stab himself in the hand. After swearing and staunching the bleeding with his mouth, Stiles grabs his iPod (carefully avoiding the writing implement-turned-weapon) and puts on some Disturbed to match his horrible mood.

As “Prayer” blasts in his ears, Stiles walks back to the subway station. He grabs his phone out of his bag, almost dropping it twice due to uncontrollable rage, and texts Scott. 

Dude, I cant take this assnmt anymore!  
Asshole not home. WE NEED DRINKS L8R

Ttly w/ you man, cant stare at Allison’s  
hair ribbon nemore, need to man up,  
it’s KARAOKE TIME

Stiles agrees. Whenever he and Scott are down about something, getting plastered while belting out Journey and Cher is the best cure-all. They usually wake up together the next morning, Stiles sprawled out and drooling on Scott’s stomach in Scott’s bed (it’s just more comfy, okay) with horrible morning breath and dual aversions to sunlight. Their hangover tends to temporarily wipe out whatever it is that is bugging them, and they get coffee wearing sunglasses even if it’s raining and pretend they are super cool agents of mystery. Then Jackson shatters their illusions as soon as they walk into work by getting right up in their sensitive faces and threatening them in gruff undertones punctuated by jerky body movements. This usually disorients Stiles to the point where he has to run to the bathroom to puke, while Scott will sightlessly feel his way to his desk to wait for Stiles with a bottle of water.

Despite the known consequences of their drunken actions, Scott and Stiles meet at Planet Rose, their local karaoke spot. They discovered it on their first walk around the neighborhood, and Stiles was immediately drawn in by the fact that it looks like the inside of a drag queen’s womb. Seriously, zebra print couches, rose-red walls and neon lights everywhere? TOTALLY AWESOME.

As Stiles and Scott approach the bar, Stiles notices a new guy pouring drinks for the week-night crowd. He has blue eyes, angelic, curly hair, and his long arms reach out effortlessly to keep rum-and-cokes and Coronas flowing into the clientele. Stiles sidles up to the bar, patting the empty seat next to him for Scott to sit on.

“Two of the fruitiest beverage combinations you can possibly dream up, kind sir.”

The bartender eyes Stiles and slowly lifts one eyebrow. 

“I can do that, if you tell me where you got that jacket.”

Scott and Stiles share a look. Stiles says, “I…okay, I’m just going to be honest here. I drunkenly hooked up with some dude at a warehouse party and he gave me it to keep me warm, but we parted ways before I could get his number.”

Isaac nods once and smiles almost shyly, seeming to accept the story and be somehow amused by it, and begins mixing their froufy and delicious alcoholic beverages. He places a bright purple one in front of Stiles, while Scott’s is a sort of grapefruit color, both glowing in response to the black lights that give the whole place a radioactive undertone. Stiles is distracted by his concoction and the throaty warblings of his best friend and roommate (there are many variations on the broken-hearted love song, and Scott is determined to sing them all) for about an hour. Then it occurs to him to wonder why the hell the bartender would even care about his jacket. He waves the bartender over, flailing somewhat wildly due to the effects of his drink. 

“Um, these things are delicious, but why did you want to know about my jacket?”

The bartender smiles, and Stiles is momentarily thrown by how cherubic the man really is. Cherubically hot. Oh god, Stiles thinks, now I’m attracted to people who look like angel babies. I’m a fucking pedophile.

He must be making a weird face because his reverie is interrupted by the bartender, who at this point is giving him a concerned look, and says,

“I am pretty positive it belongs to my friend Derek, especially if your name happens to be Stiles.” 

“Oh man, THAT IS TOTALLY MY NAME.” Stiles leans forward on the bar, grabbing the edges to pull himself forward towards the bartender. “I really want to see- I mean, give him his coat back…Do you have his number?”

“Yeah, but you probably won’t be able to reach him right now. He’s hanging out at Paddles tonight, and he doesn’t usually check his phone while he’s there. You could probably find him if you went, though.” 

Stiles leans back. “Paddles?”

The bartender smiles again, his smile a little less shy and a little more…predatory. “It’s a kink club.”

Stiles’ cheeks, already flushed, go even ruddier. 

The bartender laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s pretty welcoming to new people. Nothing too extreme happens there…although I guess it depends on your definition of extreme. You should look for my friend Erica while you’re there, she might be hanging out with him.” 

Stiles pauses. “Her name doesn’t happen to be Erica Reyes, does it?”

“Yeah, how do you know her?”

“I designed her website. They say New York is small, but damn.” Stiles rubs his stubbled head with one hand, suddenly self-conscious.

The bartender laughs. “I’m sure she’ll be excited to meet you, she said the site’s been helping her pick up some serious clients. I’m Isaac, by the way.”

The bartender holds out his hand; Stiles grabs it and gives it a cautious shake.

“Nice to meet you. I’m, oh wait, you already know who I am.” Stiles smacks his other hand to his forehead.

“Well, Stiles, you better get your ass over there. I think Derek’s been missing his coat these past couple weeks, it’s getting cold as fuck out. You want to settle your tab?”

Stiles nods, and walks over to Scott to pull him away from the screen and the microphone he is clutching for what seems like dear life. 

“What are you doing man, I was just getting to the chorus, and Sting is SO GOOD MAN.”

“Scott, we are going on an adventure. Time to put our big-boy pants on.”

Scott gives him a quizzical look; Stiles ignores it and pulls him to the bar. He signs his bill, making sure to tip Isaac well, and grabs his and Scott’s coats. Isaac gives him a very serious salute, which Stiles returns with a smile. The two friends exit the bar, at which point Scott stops Stiles, and says, 

“Man, where the hell are we going that is so important that I had to stop in the middle of singing FIELDS OF FRIGGING GOLD to go there RIGHT NOW?”

“The bartender is friends with Derek. And he told me where he’s hanging out tonight!”

“Holy shit man.”

“I know, man!”

They stare at each other for about half a second, at which point Scott grabs Stiles and yells, “TO THE…wait, where are we going?”

“Paddles.”

“TO THE PADDLES. Wait, what the hell is a Paddles?”

Stiles pats Scott on the head. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll see when we get there.”

They hail a cab to midtown west. Scott pays, since Stiles paid for their drinks, and they get out in front of a drab looking concrete building with no signage. 

“Um, dude, I’m already creeped out. If we die here I am holding you responsible. Now tell me what the fuck a Paddles is.“

“It’s a kink club.”

Scott stares blankly. Slowly, comprehension dawns on his puppy-like face. 

“Stiles. I love you man. And I will go with you, because I love you. But you must never, ever tell Allison about this.”

Stiles nods solemnly; “I will never tell Allison about this.” But that is assuming that her scary-ass father ever allows her to see you again, so the chances that I will even have to remember to keep my mouth shut are very slim at the moment, he thinks to himself, but does not say aloud, because that would be like taking his friend’s already crushed heart and stomping on it with very heavy boots.

Scott smiles at him, face full of perfect trust, and says, 

“Okay, let’s go.”

The two still slightly buzzed companions make their way into the building, down a long hallway plastered with signs for gay-only evening events in which oily, scantily clad men in leather beckon, and come to a window manned by a young, muscular black guy, who stonily asks,

“Do you have your TNG cards?”

“Say whaaaat?” Stiles emits slowly. The window dude’s unaffected demeanor takes a teensy turn for the exasperated. 

“This is a TNG-only event, if you don’t have your cards we can’t let you in.”

“Crap,” Stiles says, looking at Scott forlornly. 

“Dude, we came all this way, and I am here supporting you, we can’t just quit now!” Scott says.

“True that, homie.” Stiles says; the guy in the window gives him a look of pure, unfiltered sass. 

“Friend, please don’t point the sass directly at me, it hurts. Is Erica Reyes here? She’s a friend, can you tell her Stiles Stilinski is here?”

The sassy look turns to one of resigned apathy, and the man leaves the window. Three minutes later, he returns, stating:

“She’s in the middle of a scene, but she said to let you in. Just don’t fuck with anyone and keep your hands to yourself unless you ask first. Also, it’s $20. Each.”

Stiles glances at Scott, who is beginning to look like a disgruntled puppy. 

“Okay, okay, I’m paying, it’s my adventure, blah blah.”

Stiles hands the man at the window the money, and they head through the door.


	3. Cheese Curl Hulk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for BDSM stuff and sub-drop/sub-space-related problems

They turn a corner to find a small hallway with a coat check, which opens up into a larger space. The walls are black, and to their right is a bar serving what looks like…ices? Stiles wonders if perhaps this place is more his style than he originally believed. The wall opposite the bar is hung with a large variety of instruments, from paddles to cats-of-nine-tails to black leather gloves with metal spikes attached to the palms. Stiles suppresses a shiver; those could be very pleasant if used correctly. Or very, very painful. His mind starts to churn as he gets wrapped up in possible scenarios. His gloved hands roving over pale skin, covered in dark hair; a flash of electric blue eyes as he presses harder, letting the points of the metal studs dig in slightly-

“Dude!”

Scott shakes Stiles from his reverie by pointing to a table of snacks off to the left. He wanders away toward the cookies, cheese curls and punch without a backward glance. Stiles sighs and prepares to follow him when he hears a whacking noise and a gruff moan that sounds oddly familiar. He whirls around to see a raised platform with a wooden hangman beam. Standing on the platform are two women, on either side of a large, well-muscled man. One is quite short despite wearing towering red platform heels, as well as a crop top and tight skirt made out of latex in the same bright red color. Her auburn hair cascades gently down her back; it serves to contrast the stern and meticulous way in which she is attending to the guy trussed up on the platform, his hands cuffed and arms strung up to the beam with chains. She and the other woman, a blond in a tight-fitting leopard print mini-dress, are slowly and brutally paddling the man attached to the scaffolding between them. His large, muscular build (brick shithouse, Stiles thinks distractedly) is covered in reddening scratch and bite marks and blossoming bruises. His head hangs forward, face covered by a spiky mop of black hair. There is something familiar about all three, but Stiles can’t seem to place any of them. As Stiles’ brain starts clicking memories into their appropriate slots the blond looks up and smiles brightly at him.

“Stiles!”

“…Erica? Hey!”

As Stiles approaches, Erica walks forward confidently to embrace him, despite having never met him before in real life. Stiles glances at the man behind her. His head is still bowed, and the tiny redhead is whispering into his ear. She looks at Stiles curiously and begins stroking the man’s ass, occasionally giving it a light squeeze, which causes him to moan. Wait…Stiles peers more closely at the redhead over Erica’s shoulder. He knows that auburn hair, those green eyes, that tiny frame. The button nose and pouty peach lips, now stained red, that he’s fantasized about kissing so many times. Suddenly the bossy demeanor and patronizing attitude that never failed to shame him at office Christmas parties fit perfectly in the context of dominating and humiliating people in a sexual fashion. Stiles’ eyes widen in recognition, just as the redhead whispers something else in the man’s ear, her cherry red lips widening into a smirk, and he slowly raises his head, green eyes boring into Stiles’. 

Seeing Lydia and Derek together in such alien circumstances short-circuits something vital in Stiles’ brain. A strange, bird-like squawk escapes his lips, and he lets his arms drop from Erica’s body. They mirror the state of his jaw. “It’s great to see you, I wanted to thank you…” Erica trails off, as she registers the contorted remains of his face. “…for the work you did on my website. Damn. You know, my brain would probably be broken too if I were you.”

“What?” Stiles manages to get out. He’s not sure how actual words are escaping his mouth at the moment.

“How do you think you got my contract? I needed a site, Lydia recommended you. I’ve known her a while. Secretaries make shit money, and Jackson was never going to give her a raise after she dumped his ass.”

Stiles nods. Up and down, two simple directions with his head, are about all he can handle.

“Anyway, you know Derek?”

Stiles attempts to return his face to a more functional position. His eyes are still stuck staring, though, at the two objects of his libidinal affection, one of whom has closed his eyes and lowered his head. Lydia continues to whisper into his ear, and begins slowly stroking his nipples. Stiles is starting to salivate. He takes a couple of breaths and tries to engage Erica in conversation.

“Uh, yeah, I actually met him at a Halloween party a few weeks ago.”

Erica looks at Stiles a little more intently. 

“You weren’t dressed as the Red Hood, were you?”

“How’d you know?”

“Derek told me about you, duh.” She looks at Stiles appraisingly. “Have you ever done anything kinky before?”

Stiles slowly tears his gaze from the scene in front of him and tries to focus on Erica. What did she just say? Kinky…what?

“Not…no? I guess I fucked around a little at school but it was mostly vanilla-type sex. But I’ve seen a lot of stuff on Kink.com, so I sort of have ideas about…things…”

Erica nods, considering his answer. “Hey, wait a minute while I go ask Lydia something?” 

Stiles returns her nod, and Erica scampers (how the fuck does she scamper in those heels, he will never understand, it’s like the laws of physics just do not apply to super-hot dominatrixes) over to the platform. She speaks to Lydia, who smiles slowly, and then the two of them move to stand directly in front of Derek’s head and tip it up so he is looking directly at them. Stiles can’t hear what they are saying, but he can hear the low undertones of Derek’s reply. It seems to be positive, because Erica motions Stiles over.

As Stiles walks over to the platform, Derek’s head drops down again, and Lydia wraps her arms around his neck and continues her ear-whispering; her hands move to his shoulders and eventually snake down to the front of his pants, where she rubs his crotch gently.

Stiles is internally freaking out. Just a half hour ago he was drinking away his woodworking-hermit-related troubles with Scott in an awesome bar with an awesome bartender and delicious, oddly-colored drinks; now he is in some alternate reality where one ridiculously hot object of his lustful obsession is somehow a dominatrix DOMINATING THE OTHER OBJECT OF HIS LUSTFUL OBSESSION. 

“So, Stiles,” Erica intones, “Lydia and I had a little conversation. With Derek’s permission we would like to give you a lesson on the intricate pleasures of pain play.” Erica grins at him. Like one of those happy, toothy sharks you see “grinning” at you in pictures on the internet with captions like “I can smell your blood in the water and it smells tasty!” 

Stiles swallows. He needs another drink. He needs a bathroom. He needs…no, he definitely doesn’t need his mother, holy god, why would his brain supply him with that idea right now Jesus. But, being an extremely curious person, often to personal detriment, Stiles decides that this is a thing he is going to do. When somebody offers you your crush up on a silver platter (or tied to a wooden beam, whatever) to do with what you will, you don’t say no.

“That sounds…great. Can I talk to Derek first?”

Erica looks at Lydia, who gives a thumbs up. 

“Sure. Just be aware that the rules of our scene do not allow for him to verbally communicate unless he needs to slow down or safeword out.”

“Do you use the stop-light system as well?” 

Erica looks surprised. 

“Yeah, glad you know about that. It’d be great if you used it to check in with him every once in a while. And Derek’s safeword is ‘wolfsbane.’”

Stiles is momentarily thrown by the odd choice of safeword, but who the hell is he to judge? He nods at Erica, steels himself, and walks up to the platform. Lydia unbends, stretches her lithe, tiny body, and steps down to stand next to him. She smiles (again like a predator, but more like a tiger, soft and deadly…ugh he has to stop with the animal analogies) and says “Hello, Stiles.” 

“Lydia. Hi. Um.” He swallows thickly, unsure of what to do. His hands are sweating. Lydia puts one of her pale, delicate hands on his shoulder and squeezes. “Don’t worry. You’ll be great!” She rubs his head-stubble (oh, what he would have done for that in the past) and walks away toward Erica without a backward glance.

Stiles scrubs his hands over his face and decides to just keep going. If he stops to think too much…He steps up onto the platform holding the beam and slowly walks up to Derek, whose head is still hanging, his hair so black it seems to swallow all the light around it. Stiles takes a deep breath, shaking a little with nerves, and bends his lips to Derek’s ear.

“Hey, Derek…How’re you doing tonight?” 

Derek raises his head, and stares at Stiles with those oddly green, mesmerizing eyes, and Stiles is momentarily breathless. Then he shakes himself a little, realizes how idiotic he must sound, and tries again.

“Derek…you look.... I’ve never seen anyone I know so vulnerable. You must trust them a lot.” Stiles tips his head in the direction of Erica and Lydia.

Derek nods slightly.

“Um…” Stiles puts a hand on his hip and scratches the hair behind his head with the other hand. Derek continues to stare at him.

Stiles is starting to think that verbal is just not the way to go here. He glances over at Erica and Lydia; Erica is smiling at him encouragingly, and Lydia looks bored, yet also annoyed at his clear lack of skills. Stiles sighs, and looks back at Derek, who has let his head hang back down again. Crap.

“Derek…ugh this is so strange because this is the second time I’ve ever even seen you and I have no idea what I’m doing so…I’m just going to shut up now.”

Stiles takes another breath to steel himself and cups Derek’s cheek with a hand. As soon as he makes contact, Derek moves into the touch, slowly rubbing his cheek on Stiles’ palm. Interesting. Stiles moves his hand up slowly, sensitive skin tickled by Derek’s dark stubble, and spreads the pads of his fingers onto the back of Derek’s neck, his thumb resting on Derek’s jaw. After a moment of indecision, he brings his hand fully to the back of Derek’s head, gets a firm grip on his hair, and uses it to pull his head back forcefully. Derek takes in a sharp breath, his eyes snapping open…and they’re electric blue. What the fuck? Stiles stares at Derek’s eyes, but the color doesn’t fade. Well, fuck it, I’m not going to get thrown by this shit, Stiles tells himself. I didn’t finally find him again just to fuck it up now.

He places his other palm on Derek’s chest, and moves it down to his nipple. Lydia was playing with it earlier; it must still be pretty sensitive. He slowly thumbs it, feeling it harden under his touch, and Derek’s eyes close. Stiles needs more of a reaction. He brings his lips to Derek’s cheek, peppering small, gentle kisses down his neck until he reaches his throat, just where it connects to the muscle of his shoulder. Then he bites, hard enough to leave a mark, he thinks. Derek moans, and Stiles can feel the vibrations rumbling through his teeth. 

Stiles slowly releases the pressure on Derek’s shoulder, moving till his lips are just barely touching the soft skin of Derek’s ear. “Do you like that? When I bite you?” Stiles whispers, and realizes he’s turning himself on. Derek whimpers in response. Stiles looks over at the instruments of sexual torture hanging on the vertical post of the wooden beam next to Derek, and spots the cat-o-nine tails. 

“I know you’ve been enjoying yourself, but I think it’s time I get to experiment a little.” Stiles walks to the beam, unhooks the implement from the wall, and turns to face Derek’s back. He gets a good grip on the leather handle and studies Derek for a moment. Nestled between his shoulder blades is a black tattoo of a triskele. The curves of the Celtic symbol undulate over his skin, the inky lines coasting over his musculature; Stiles is mesmerized. He steps forward and traces the lines with his fingers. He wants to know the story behind it. Stiles becomes aware of just how little he knows about Derek, and the gravity of their situation. Derek is both mentally and physically exposed. He is trusting Stiles to take care of him. That’s big, especially considering he and Stiles have only just met. Stiles takes a deep breath. He’s not sure he’s up to this. He’s not sure if he deserves to be given that sort of trust. That he can meet the expectations involved. 

Derek moves under his hand, startling him out of his thoughts. Stiles moves his hand from the triskele further down Derek’s back; he brings it around to the front of Derek’s torso, resting it on his abs, brushing his fingers against the muscular ridges. He shifts so his body is flush up against Derek’s and his chin is resting on Derek’s shoulder. Derek moves into Stiles, pressing them even closer together. Stiles can hear and feel how he’s breathing, just a little quicker than normal; he inhales deeply and breathes into Derek’s ear:

“I want you to feel safe and know that we can stop this whenever you need. I want this to be good for you. But we barely know each other. I want to know you better, and this is part of that. But I need to know if this is right for you; that you want this as much as I do.” Derek’s breathing stills for a moment, and Stiles closes his eyes in anticipation of rejection, of the safeword Erica mentioned earlier. But he never hears it. Instead, he feels Derek’s head turn, and opens his eyes. Derek is looking over his shoulder at him, face open and eyes back to that clear sea green, flicking down to Stiles’ lips and back up again. He nods once; that’s all it takes, and Stiles is pressing his lips determinedly against Derek’s. Derek opens his mouth and lets Stiles in. Stiles sighs into the warm, slick space, letting his tongue slide against Derek’s, pressing his body closer, feeling his dick against Derek’s firm ass through too many layers of clothing. He pulls back; he has to stop himself or he’s going to come in his pants before anything else happens. Derek makes a discontented noise and looks at him with a slight scowl; Stiles grins and presses another slow kiss to his mouth, close-lipped. Derek sighs, and when Stiles pulls back he nods again, turns to look straight ahead and closes his eyes. 

Stiles reluctantly pulls away, slowly dragging his hand from Derek’s abs and placing it between his shoulders, and rubs the triskele gently. He takes a few steps away, gets a good grip on the handle of the cat-o-nine tails, and tries a gentle figure 8 motion, letting his wrist guide the tails to fall with a gentle rhythm from the tops of Derek’s shoulders to the bottom of the opposite sides of his back. He gradually increases the force of the blows, and Derek’s back begins to redden, every swing of the tails leaving white marks that turn a bright red. Stiles can hear Derek moaning softly, becoming louder with every strike. His back muscles tense and release, rippling with the rhythm of the leather as it makes contact.

Stiles gets lost in the motion and the visual symmetry of the tails moving. His mind starts to wander, thinking of all the things he could do to Derek; bending him over his knee and spanking him, Derek calling him sir; jerking him off and denying him, making him beg for it. Eventually Stiles tunes back in, and realizes Derek’s back has stiffened; he isn’t making noises anymore. Stiles stops, letting the implement fall from his hand to the floor, and runs around to face Derek.

Derek is breathing hard, staring straight ahead, but from the look on his face Stiles can tell he isn’t seeing what’s in front of him. He glances at Lydia and Erica, who are talking to each other; they must have thought he had it under control and stopped watching Derek’s face and body language. Fuck. 

“Derek? Derek, I need you to look at me.” Stiles puts his hands as gently as he can on Derek’s shoulders, hoping the touch will bring him back. Derek shuts his eyes, his mouth pressed into a thin line, eyebrows drawn together. Stiles rubs Derek’s shoulders, trying to work the stiffness from his muscles. His breathing is slowing down, but Stiles can feel his body begin to tremble. 

“Erica, Lydia, I need help over here!” As soon as they hear their names, the women’s heads turn, their faces shifting into concern as they stride over as fast as their shoes will allow. Erica takes a closer look at Derek and shoots one at Lydia, who runs (yes, even with the shoes) over to the bar and grabs water and pretzels from the bartender. While she’s busy with that Erica grabs Stiles by the arm and asks,

“Do you know anything about subspace and sub-drop?”

Stiles nods. He knows that sometimes, if a sub gets too deep into their own headspace during a scene and their dom doesn’t check in enough to bring them out, they can get lost in it. So lost that they start to disassociate from reality. And if something goes wrong and they need to end the scene, they might be so lost in that space that they can’t safeword out anymore. Oh, fuck. Erica must see the look in Stiles’ eyes; she must know how he suddenly feels like he can’t breathe, because he’s fucked up so badly when somebody trusted him.

“Stiles, look at me.” Erica gently palms Stiles’ face, making sure he’s looking into her eyes. 

“Derek is going to be fine, but we need to take care of him right now. I need you to keep talking to him, keep touching him, see if you can bring him out of it. I’m going to get something for him to sit on and take him down, okay? You are going to be fine, I want you to take a deep breath and say it for me. Tell me you are going to be fine, and Derek is going to be fine.” 

Stiles looks at Erica’s face; it’s completely open, completely trusting. She isn’t lying. Stiles takes a deep breath.

“I’m going to be fine. And Derek is going to be fine.” Erica smiles at him, squeezes his arm, and walks away to grab a chair sitting not far from them. Stiles takes another deep, shaky breath and turns towards Derek. The trembling is getting worse, and his face is beginning to pale.

“Derek. I need you to look at me okay.” Stiles moves his hands to Derek’s face. His eyes are still shut, brows knit, mouth in a grimace. 

“Derek, I’m right here. I am right here and I am not leaving you.” Stiles thumbs Derek’s cheek; Derek’s eyes snap open again, but he’s not staring at Stiles. He starts to mumble something incoherently; Stiles strains to hear it. All he can make out are the words “no” over and over, and what seems like it could be a name, maybe Kay…or, no, it’s “Kate.” 

“Derek. I’m right here, okay? Can you hear me? I need you to hear me Derek.” While Stiles is talking, Erica has brought the chair over, and places it behind Derek. She begins to unshackle his wrists where they are attached to chains hanging from the wooden beam. Stiles notices Lydia standing off to the side with the pretzels and water. She is looking at Derek with concern, but there is something else on her face. Every time he utters the word “Kate,” she looks angrier. Stiles files it away and watches as Erica finishes with Derek’s wrists. She gently lowers and releases his arms next to his sides, and Derek’s trembling turns into full-blown shivers. 

“Fuck, Derek, hey. Hey!” Derek is still staring straight ahead. Stiles doesn’t know what to do. He’s completely out of his depth, and a person he barely knows is having a mental breakdown because of something he did. So he does the only thing he can think of; he wraps his arms around Derek and hugs him. He can feel the shaking wracking Derek’s body, the labored breathing. He thinks of what he learned about dealing with his panic attacks. He starts rubbing Derek’s back, gentle but firm, and takes long, deep breathes, hoping Derek can feel the rise and fall of his chest and will fall into the same pattern. 

“Derek, you are going to be okay. I just need you to come back. Please. It’s Stiles, Derek. Just listen to me. Come back to me. I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen. Derek, I’m so sorry, just please come back okay?”

Eventually, Stiles feels Derek’s body begin to settle; his breathing eases, the trembling slows, and his arms come to rest wrapped around Stiles’ lower back. Stiles feels Derek’s face nuzzle into his neck, his breath coming warm and even and deep, and lets himself feel some sense of relief. He continues to stroke Derek’s back with his hand, but eventually starts to pull away. Derek responds by holding on tighter to Stiles, pulling him even closer, almost to the point where it’s uncomfortable. Stiles feels the breath go out of him a little bit, but holds on. Eventually, Derek eases up, and when can Stiles can breathe again, he says,

“Hey. Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

Stiles feels Derek sigh, and mumble something indecipherable into his neck. Stiles glances over to see Erica and Lydia talking softly again. Lydia is explaining something to Erica, leaving Erica looking pretty upset. Lydia puts a hand on Erica’s shoulder, but it doesn’t seem to be helping. Stiles feels Derek pull away slightly, and moves to better see his face. Derek’s eyes are red, and his cheeks are wet. Shit.

“Derek, what happened? I am so sorry. I never meant…”

“Stiles, it’s not your fault.” Derek ducks his head, takes another deep breath. 

“I agreed to this, I know what my triggers are, you don’t. It’s my fault. I’m okay. You don’t have to stay, you can go.” 

Stiles isn’t convinced. 

“As new as I am to this, I get that I participated in something that really upset you, and I’m taking responsibility for that, okay? I’m not leaving until I know you’re feeling better. Unless you want me to leave, because you need space. I would understand that.”

Derek looks up quickly.

“No, I…I don’t want you to leave.” He closes his eyes, and swallows thickly. 

“Boys, I think Derek should sit down.” Stiles is momentarily surprised to realize Lydia is standing right next to them, and doesn’t miss the commanding tone in her voice. Erica is standing a foot or so away, glaring off into the distance. Lydia raises her eyebrows at Stiles.

Stiles look back at Derek. 

“Derek, she’s right, you need to sit down and drink some water.”

Derek looks loathe to let go of Stiles, but he complies, and sits heavily on the chair behind him. It creaks a little with his weight. Lydia hands him the bottle of water, which he gulps down quickly. Stiles watches his adams apple bob, and then mentally slaps himself. Keep it together, he needs you, you asshole, this is not the time for objectification. Stiles is snapped out of his thoughts as Lydia grabs his arm and pulls him away. He lets her, but keeps his eyes trained on Derek, who is forlornly attempting to open the bag of pretzels.

“Hey, eyes over here, buddy!” Stiles feels his face being none-too-gently grabbed and turned toward the redhead. Her nails are sharp. 

“Sorry, Lydia. Ugh, I’m so sorry. Is he going to be okay? What the hell happened?”

Lydia’s eyes soften a little, and she studies him a moment. 

“Look, you don’t know him very well, but he seems to like you. So I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt here. He’s got some really bad shit in his past. It’s never been a problem before, but then again Erica and I have generally kept it pretty casual with him.” Lydia sighs.

“Something is triggering his issues, but until we figure out what it is and how he wants to deal with it you probably shouldn’t play anymore.” 

Stiles’ face falls. Lydia looks at him, and puts her hand (and lethal-looking nails) on his shoulder.

“Hey, it’s partially my fault for not judging the situation correctly and keeping enough of an eye on you. And that’s saying a lot because I am not a person who fucks up. So stop being so hard on yourself, it doesn’t look good on you and it’s making me nauseous. I said you shouldn’t play with him, that doesn’t mean you can’t do anything else.” She glances over at Derek, who has managed to open the pretzels but is paused with one held halfway to his mouth, a glazed look on his face.

“Dammit. We need to get him home and keep him out of his own head until he falls asleep. I don’t want him going back to where he was before.” She crosses her arms and purses her lips, then brings her fingers to her chin, tapping a cherry red nail on it thoughtfully.

“I think it would be good for both of you if you came back to my place tonight; I have a guest room with a queen that you can share.” It’s a testament to how shaken Stiles is that he quickly agrees rather than reacting to the idea that Lydia has just invited him (and Derek) to her place. Stiles likes Lydia’s plan; the last thing he wants to do is be alone right now. He also wants to make sure Derek feels safe. He can’t imagine what is going on in his head.

Lydia walks over to Derek, puts a hand on his shoulder, and explains the plan in even tones. He snaps out of it a little, and nods. Stiles glances over at Erica, who has calmed down from her livid state. She gives him a small smile and walks over.

“So you’re going to stay at Lydia’s. That seems like a good idea. Where’s your friend? You might want to let him where you’re going.”

Oh man. Scott. Stiles was so wrapped up in things that he completely forgot about his best friend. He holds a finger up to Erica and practically stumbles away toward where he thinks the snack table is. As he books it to the other end of the club, bypassing people in various states of undress and debauchery, he begins to replay the events of the last hour or so in his head. What happened? What did he do? Why did he do it? He begins to realize how unprepared he was, and the damage he may have done. What the hell was he thinking? The thoughts start racing through his mind, his lungs are constricting, he can’t breathe…

“Stiles? You okay man?”

Scott. Thank fuck.

Stiles looks around him and realizes he has somehow propelled himself into the snack table, and is currently gripping the edge of it, as well as a bunch of cheese curls, so hard that the cheese curls have turned to squishy orange mush in his hand.

Scott looks down at the mush.

“That’s pretty gross, man. Here, here’s a napkin, let’s just get you to the bathroom, okay?” 

He leads Stiles by the elbow, directing him through a door with a simple “WC” marked on it in silver sprayed on letters, and turns on the cold water tap. He places Stiles’ hands under the spray.

Stiles looks at his reflection. He’s pale and clammy and totally not in control of himself. He starts to wash the orange crap off his hand; it’s hard, his hands are shaking.

“Dude, you wanna tell me what happened? I saw you…um, hanging…out….with Derek, and the next thing I know you are running over here and grabbing those cheese curls in a really violent way.” Scott puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder; the cold of the water and the warmth of his best friend’s hand calm him. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Man, I got in way over my head. I didn’t check in with Derek to see if he was okay, and he got stuck in his head. Something happened. Lydia…she said he had some bad shit in his past and I think what I was doing made him remember it. Ugh, Scott, I can’t believe this. He trusted me and I fucked up, man. He probably hates me.” Stiles covers his face with his cold, wet, shaking hands.

Scott rubs his back. 

“Dude, he doesn’t hate you. I think he likes you. From what I could tell he was having a good time in the beginning! And you don’t really know what you’re doing, I’m sure he understands that. Seriously, from what I can tell it has more to do with some shit he needs to work out than what you did. Did he say anything to you before you came running over to crush cheese curls like the Hulk?”

Stiles removes his hands from his face, and starts mopping it with a paper towel. 

“Yeah. He said it wasn’t my fault. And…he didn’t want me to leave. Actually, I came over here to tell you that Lydia invited me to stay with him at her place.” He looks at Scott, wincing slightly, then looks away, absently shoving his thumbnail in his mouth to chew on. 

“I don’t…I don’t know what to do. I fucking hate not knowing what to do,” he says around his nail. 

Scott smiles, giving his shoulder a squeeze. 

“You should go, man. I think you need to know he’s okay. And I think he might need you there. I think he wants you there.” Scott gives Stiles his best, most earnest puppy face, and throws in a quick hug for good measure.

“You’re gonna be okay dude, I promise. And if you need anything tonight you just call me or text me and I will wake up and come get you. I know you’d do the same for me man.” 

“Thanks man.” Stiles rubs his hands over his head a couple of times, shakes out his limbs (nearly knocking into the sink in the process), and smiles at Scott, opening the door for him and gesturing for him to exit first. 

Scott takes his cue, and the two friends walk out to meet Erica, Lydia and Derek at the other side of the club.


End file.
